


If You Run in Your Thoughts (You Don’t Get Anywhere)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, Memories of Humiliation, Non-Sexual Submission, Promises, Trust, mentoring, overcoming abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5039734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valtteri can't trust that Nik won't hurt him, and Nik can't believe that Valtteri thinks he would ever hurt him. Written per reader request. Please be advised that this story contains references to past abuse suffered by a main character (although not inflicted by another main character), so exercise discretion when choosing to read it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Run in Your Thoughts (You Don’t Get Anywhere)

**Author's Note:**

> As the summary says, this story contains references to past abuse of a main character, so please take this as your trigger warning and hit the back button if reading about this will cause you an inordinate amount of distress.

“You don’t get anywhere if you run in your thoughts.” —Finnish Proverb

If You Run in Your Thoughts (You Don’t Get Anywhere) 

All Valtteri Filppula wanted to do was escape from the Joe and lock himself up in his bedroom, tucking the tattered remnants of his pride under his blanket until he had to get up for tomorrow’s morning skate. Practice today had been one catastrophe after another. 

First he had somehow managed to slip on a bad patch of ice (probably the only one in the whole arena because the universe liked to use him as proof that it had a cruel sense of humor). Then his fumbling fingers couldn’t corral even the simplest of passes in a drill, but that clumsiness had later seemed almost coordinated when it came time for shooting and every time he hit the puck, it looked as if he had been aiming it at the net in the glass instead of the real goal. 

Unfortunately, his lack of dexterity had followed him back into the locker room, tripping up his hands when they accidentally tried to push his head through an arm-hole in his T-shirt. Glancing surreptitiously around at the players changing near him, he was relieved to see that both of them had their faces buried in the clothes they were pulling over their necks. 

Poppies began to bloom in his cheeks and only got redder as he tried to tug his jeans on backward. When he had corrected that mistake—which he hoped had also gone undetected by his neighbors—Valtteri zipped up his fly and took three tries to close one button. He was about to don his windbreaker—probably upside-down with his abrupt ineptitude at dressing himself—when he felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around to meet Nik Kronwall’s eyes. 

Not daring to lock gazes with the player who had been assigned to “look after him” as the Red Wings called it for fear of inviting a slap to the face for not being appropriately submissive even though Nik had acted nice when they were introduced, because the captain of Jokerit, Sami Helenius, had smiled pleasantly too when he had hurt Valtteri more than he had thought possible, Valtteri ducked his head and hoped this would be enough to evade a blow until he gave Nik some other excuse to hit him. 

“Val.” Nik squeezed his shoulder, and Valtteri cringed. “I’d like a word with you in private.” 

Grateful that whatever humiliation Nik had planned for him was at least going to take place in private, since Sami Helenius had rarely been so considerate, Valtteri nodded, too nervous to risk spoiling his luck by speaking out of turn, and followed Nik mutely out of the locker room into the hallway. As the door shut in their wake, leaving him defenseless and alone with Nik, Valtteri felt his stomach knot like a pretzel as he tried to predict and brace himself for whatever impending punishment Nik was going to deliver. 

Perhaps he would be beaten with a belt buckle while kneeling on a plank of nails that pierced more deeply into his skin any time he started at a particularly harsh whack if Nik was in the mood for a relatively brief bit of torture, or else he might be stripped naked and forced to kneel on cold, unrelenting tiles until his whole body was numb from chill and prolonged immobility if Nik wished to inflict a more elongated form of torment upon him. Maybe, if Nik was feeling especially cantankerous today, he would run ice cubes along Valtteri’s dick until they melted or drive needles into his nipples while he was stripped. That had been a favorite technique of Sami’s. 

“You can relax.” With a palm on his shoulder, Nik steered Valtteri toward a conference room down the corridor. “I’m not going to yell at you, okay?” 

Valtteri offered a dull nod of assent, not exactly reassured, because, after all, Sami hadn’t been a shouter either. Instead of screaming insults at Valtteri, Sami had the habit of leaning near enough to Valterri’s ear that his breath blew into the drum as he whispered that Valtteri was a worthless waste of space who deserved whatever punishment he got just for having the audacity to exist. 

“Do you know how hard it is to talk to you when you won’t answer back?” Nik asked, a touch of impatience shading his tone for the first time, as he swung a bottle of fruit punch Gatorade from hand to hand. 

“Sorry, sir.” Valtteri bit his lip, tasting iron, and inwardly cursed himself for finding a way to make his silence so offensive to the one in charge of disciplining him. Damn it, he really did mess up everything…

“Sir?” Nik repeated, pointing at himself. “Are you addressing me?” 

“Yes, sir.” Terrified that he had somehow managed to speak out of turn, Valtteri squeaked like a mouse retreating into its hole. 

“I’m not a sir.” Nik pinched the bridge of his nose, as if Valtteri was bringing on a migraine. 

“Do you prefer master?” Valtteri stared at the floor while he followed Nik’s shoes into the meeting room and braced himself for whatever embarrassment Nik had in store for him. 

“Of course not.” Nik rolled his eyes as he crossed over to a couch and sank into its cushions. “Just call me Nik or Kronner, not sir, and most definitely not master.” 

“Yes, Nik.” Valtteri felt so weary from trying so hard not to fuck up and failing anyway, as he did with almost everything in life (Sami’s voice echoed in his ear when he thought this) that he wished he could collapse into the sofa, but that would certainly not be allowed when he was being disciplined. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” Nik sighed. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Val. It’s just when you act like this, I get afraid I did something wrong.” 

“It’s not you, it’s me.” Valtteri shook his head. “I’m an eternal screw-up. Did you see me get all tied up putting on my T-shirt and jeans?” 

“That doesn’t make you a screw-up.” Nik grinned, but Valtteri, wary for a trap, didn’t trust it any more than he would a fox’s. “Have you seen Pav walk? He’s about as clumsy as a man on stilts, but you don’t think he’s a screw-up, do you?” 

“Definitely not,” stuttered Valtteri, since any rookie who had the nerve to call Pavel Datsyuk a screw-up would probably have to kneel until the end of the century at minimum. “I wouldn’t presume—“ 

“To think such a thing of your teammate. Exactly.” Nik tossed a pillow onto the floor in front of him. “Same applies to you, kid. Nobody on this team wants to judge you. Everyone is here to support you. Now, you were as jittery as a squirrel in practice today, so I’m going to calm you down. Kneel for me.” 

“On the pillow, Nik?” Valttteri gawked, since he had never knelt on anything softer than tile or nails. 

“That’s what it’s there for.” Nik nodded. “Go ahead.” 

Anxious that any further delay would garner him a punishment for disobedience, Valtteri dropped to his knees before Nik. 

“It’s a wonder you aren’t dehydrated.” Nik’s fingers combed through Valtteri’s hair, and he tensed, waiting for Nik’s fist to clench and yank on a handful of strands the way Sami would when Valtteri was vulnerable like this. “You barely drank anything in practice.” 

Now that Nik mentioned his lack of rehydration, Valtteri felt his mouth go dry as a desert while he watched Nik unscrew the Gatorade cap, ordering, “Open up.” 

Supposing that Nik planned to dump the Gatorade in his eyes, where the salt and electrolytes would probably sting like hornets, Valtteri widened his and waited for the smarting stream to break against them. 

Instead, Nik patted his cheek, causing Valtteri, who had expected a brutal swat, to wince. “I meant open your mouth,” Nik said softly, staring down at Valtteri as if he could not comprehend why his rookie cowered away from even the gentlest physical contact. 

Figuring that Nik must have intended to induce a coughing fit by making him gulp a continuous river of Gatorade, Valtteri was astonished when the bottle was placed gingerly against his lips and Nik murmured, “Drink, Val.” 

When Valtteri took a tentative sip, Nik encouraged, “That’s right. Have all you want. Drink the whole bottle if you're thirsty enough.” 

Now that Nik put the notion into his brain, Valtteri found that he was desperate enough for refreshment to do just that. Once he had swallowed the entire contents of the bottle, he glanced up at Nik and whispered, “Thank you for the Gatorade, Nik.” 

“No need to thank me. You’re my rookie, and it’s my job to take care of you.” Nik massaged the nape of Valtteri’s neck, and Valtteri’s body was on high alert for when the hands started choking him. “Practice was rough, and Babs was tough on you, but don’t worry too much about that. His bark is worse than his bite. It’s like he’s a yapping Yorkie, remember that and you’ll be fine. Now just pull yourself together. Take some deep breaths and focus on tomorrow when you’ll have an opportunity to do better.” 

Valtteri tried to do as Nik instructed but it was impossible to slow his breathing when he was worried that he’d be boxed in the ears or smacked across the lips without any warning. Sami had loved to give out those nasty surprises. 

“Val.” Nik’s quiet voice seemed loud after a few minutes where Valtteri’s heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock in the corner had been the only sounds. “Are you having trouble calming yourself down because you’re afraid that I’ll hurt you?” 

“Yes, Nik.” Valtteri hated himself for being the rookie who wasn’t resilient enough to handle discipline and the tradition of kneeling. 

“Why are you scared of me?” Nik spoke as if Valtteri had hurt him. “What have I done to you that made you believe I would ever abuse you?” 

Unable to explain that it was nothing Nik had done but everything that Sami had done that made him flinch from Nik, Valtteri stared at the pillow under his knees, a solitary tear beginning a lonely voyage down his cheek. 

Cupping his chin in a palm, Nik tilted his chin upward and persisted, “Please tell me. I’m not going to be angry at you. I just need to know so I don’t make the same mistake twice. Kneeling is about loving discipline, not fear.” 

“It wasn’t anything you did.” Another tear blazed a trail down Valtteri’s cheek. 

“Was it something somebody else did, then?” Nik wiped the tears away from Valtteri’s face.

Unable to admit the truth of his abuse aloud, Valtteri nodded mutely. 

“You don’t mean someone on this team, Val?” Nik’s forehead was furrowed, but he didn’t seem to be mad at Valtteri, but rather at whoever had inflicted the pain upon him, and, for the first time, Valtteri felt safe with Nik, who apparently wanted to protect him instead of bully him. 

Valtteri shook his head fervidly. Nobody on the team had bothered him by word or deed except for the typical locker room teasing that was meant to produce laughter, not tears. 

“Good.” Nik stroked a stray lock of hair out of Valtteri’s eyes. “If anyone on this team mistreats you, tell me about it, and I’ll put a stop to it.” 

“Yes, Nik.” Valtteri could speak again, even if he stumbled over the syllables. 

“That’s my brave boy.” In praise, Nik patted him on the back. “Now, I need you to trust me when I say that when you kneel for me, I’ll only give you affectionate touches, not punishing ones. Do you think you can do that for me?” 

Valtteri hesitated. His first instinct was to shake his head, but that would be giving Sami, who should be out of his life now, too much power. He was in Nik’s care now, and he was actually getting taken care of, instead of beaten, mocked, and generally humiliated. He was hearing words of comfort and being empowered, not told he was worthless and having his pride stripped from him along with his clothing as he was tortured under the guise of discipline. When he had obviously been wounded by the idea that he would ever hurt Valtteri, Nik wasn’t going to abuse him as Sami had. 

“I can.” Valtteri’s voice was firmer than it had been since Nik asked him for a private word. 

“Thank you.” Nik rubbed soothing circles around Valtteri’s shoulders. “In return, I have to ask you to promise me something very important.” 

“What is it?” Valtteri fiddled with his pillow, unsure of what to do with his hands. 

“Like I just said, the only physical discipline I’ll use on you is having you kneel for me on a pillow in private just as you are now, which I think you are comfortable with.” When Nik paused as if waiting for a confirmation, Valtteri nodded, and Nik went on in a manner that was simultaneously serious and sympathetic, “I realize that after what you suffered—and you don’t have to provide me with any details ever, unless you would find it healing to confide in me like that—you might have mental or emotional triggers. Anything I say or do to you comes from a place of love, but I can’t know your triggers unless you tell me. If I say or do anything that brings back those memories of abuse, let me know, because I’ll stop at once. Since I don’t ever want to hurt you, I’m asking you to trust me enough to tell me when something pains you.” 

“I’ll do that.” Valtteri couldn’t believe his ears but trusted in his heart, which somehow had faith that Nik wouldn’t break it. 

“All right.” Nik tapped him on the nose. “Just remember that being honest means you can’t invent a trigger to get out of listening to a stern lecture you don’t like.” 

"Shucks." Valtteri wrinkled his nose, shocking himself that he had the courage to joke when he was kneeling. "You suck the fun out of everything." 

"That's me." Nik chuckled amicably. "The ultimate fun-sucker. Glad you picked up on that fact so soon."


End file.
